Jonathan Moeller - The Ghosts 08 - Ghost in the Mask

by Jonathan Moeller

  Kylon bowed, recognizing the opening. “I wish to be a loyal subject of the Emperor, and so I will answer all your questions truthfully.”

  “Good,” said Martin. “If you will excuse me, I must speak with the other guests.”

  He moved towards a group of merchants near the firepit.

  “The Inn of the Seven Skulls,” said Caina. “Meet me there as soon as possible. I suspect we will have a great deal to discuss.”

  ###

  A few hours later Caina sat in her sitting room at the Inn of the Seven Skulls, sipping from a cup of tea.

  Alexandra had been busy in her absence. The room was clean, and light came from a fire crackling in the hearth. Unlike many buildings in Malarae, the Inn of the Seven Skulls had none of the glowing glass globes the initiates of the Magisterium manufactured and sold by the thousands. Either Calvarium was too isolated for many of the globes to make their way here, or living in the shadow of Caer Magia had given the townsmen a healthy fear of sorcery.

  “What,” said Corvalis, sitting at the table, “is he doing here?”

  “I don’t know,” said Caina.

  Corvalis cleaned and sharpened his weapons. Not that they needed it – he cleaned and sharpened his weapons every day, a legacy of the habits the brutal training of the Kindred had drilled into him. But he often sharpened his weapons when alarmed.

  Muravin stood by the door, motionless and silent as a statue.

  “Do you think he’s here to claim a Dustblade for himself?” said Corvalis, oiling a dagger’s blade.

  “I doubt it,” said Caina. “He won’t use necromancy, or even a weapon with a necromantic spell on it. It’s forbidden in New Kyre.”

  “From what you’ve told me,” said Corvalis, examining the dagger’s edge, “that didn’t stop his sister.”

  “No,” said Caina, “but he saw the price she paid for it.”

  She remembered Andromache screaming …

  “I think,” said Caina, “that more than one Dustblade got out of Caer Magia.” She heard the sound of footsteps in the hall. “And we’re about to find out if I’m right.”

  The door swung open, and Alexandra stepped into the hall. She gazed at Corvalis for a moment, licked her lips, and then bowed. The girl was a diligent maid, but she had developed an infatuation with Corvalis. Though if she knew that Corvalis had been a Kindred assassin, perhaps her infatuation might wither away. Then again, it might not – some women liked such qualities in their men.

  Caina did, after all.

  “Mistress,” said Alexandra. “A Kyracian lord is here to see you, Milartes of House Aegios.”

  “Thank you, Alexandra,” said Caina. “See him inside, and then go to the common room and wait until I call for you.”

  Alexandra bowed again, sneaking another glance at Corvalis, and then disappeared into the hall.

  A moment later Kylon stepped into the room. He wore leather armor of good quality, though different from the usual gray leather of a stormdancer. His sword of storm-forged steel rested in its sheath upon his left hip. Caina remembered fleeing through the streets of Marsis, Kylon hunting her with that frost-wreathed blade.

  “Close the door,” said Caina.

  Muravin shut the door behind Kylon and stood in front of it, arms crossed over his chest.

  “You are holding me captive?” said Kylon, lifting his eyebrows.

  “Not at all,” said Caina. “I wish to make sure no one overhears us.” She still suspected Alexandra was a spy for Lord Martin.

  Muravin tapped his temples. “Ears like a hawk.”

  Kylon stepped closer. A faint tingle passed over Caina’s skin. It was his water sorcery. All men were but water, he had told her once, and a stormdancer skilled with water sorcery sensed the emotions of living men as easily as a normal man saw the sun.

  “It is a strange coincidence,” said Corvalis, “seeing you here.”

  “Perhaps not,” said Kylon. “The Surge would say otherwise.”

  The Surge? Caina had heard of her. She was the high priestess of the Kyracian gods of storm and sea, held in reverence by the nobles and commoners of New Kyre alike.

  “Why are you here, Kylon?” said Caina. “New Kyre and the Empire are at war, yes…but that doesn’t mean we must be at odds. Unless you are here to harm the Empire, I will help you, if you can help us.”

  Muravin grunted. “You trust this man, mistress? He might try to kill you.”

  Kylon almost smiled. “Actually, I already tried to kill her, and she tried to kill me. Yet we are both here.”

  “You have peculiar friends, mistress,” said Muravin.

  Corvalis snorted. “Said the former champion Istarish gladiator.”

  Kylon blinked. “That must be quite a tale.”

  “It is,” said Caina, “but we can discuss it another time. Why did you come to Calvarium? Especially now, when New Kyre’s situation grows dire.”

  “I am here,” said Kylon, “because I am betrothed. To Thalastre of House Ixionos.”

  “Congratulations,” said Caina. “Though I do not recommend bringing your bride here to celebrate your nuptials. The skulls might dampen the mood.”

  “Agreed,” said Kylon. “A fortnight past an exile named Ephaltus attacked the Assembly as the Archons deliberated our strategy for the war. He wielded a weapon of sorcery called a Dustblade.”

  Caina and Corvalis shared a look.

  “I killed Ephaltus,” said Kylon, “but not before he wounded Thalastre.”

  “Gods, Kylon,” said Caina. “I’m sorry. I promise you we will find whoever took that Dustblade from Caer Magia and make them regret it.”

  “You misunderstand me,” said Kylon. “Thalastre is not dead.”

  “She isn’t?” said Caina. “How?”

  “She is a sorceress,” said Kylon, “and her power, along with the spells of the other stormsingers, have put her into a coma. She can remain that way indefinitely, but if she ever wakes, the necromancy of the Dustblade will kill her at once…and create another of those damned shades, I assume.”

  “And so you are here,” said Caina, “to see if you can find a cure.”

  “I am,” said Kylon. “The Surge bade me to find a blue bloodcrystal.”

  Caina frowned. “I’ve never heard of a blue bloodcrystal. The only ones I’ve seen were green or black.”

  “A blue bloodcrystal,” said Kylon, “can unravel the necromantic spells upon the Dustblade, and allow Thalastre to awaken safely.”

  “Which means,” said Caina, “you need to find a way into Caer Magia.”

  “You see the problem clearly,” said Kylon. “Do you know a way into the ruins?”

  “No,” said Caina, rising from her chair and setting aside her tea, “but I know who might.” She thought for a moment. “This Ephaltus. Did he mention a Maatish god named Anubankh?”

  Kylon blinked. “He did. He claimed that this god would rise anew, that the Kingdom of the Rising Sun would return.” He rubbed his jaw. “If you mentioned this dead god…you’ve seen something similar, haven’t you?”

  “Just over a fortnight ago,” said Caina. “An exiled magus named Jurius tried to kill the preceptor of Malarae with a Dustblade. He, too, claimed he would kill for the glory of Anubankh, that the empire of old Maat would rise again.”

  “A curious coincidence,” said Kylon.

  “It’s not a coincidence at all,” said Caina. “It’s the sign of an underlying pattern we cannot yet see. You’ve seen the camps outside the walls?”

  Kylon nodded. “They look like a rabble of tomb robbers.”

  “The camps belong to Lady Maena Tulvius and Anashir, an occultist of Anshan,” said Caina. “Both claim they are here to find relics from the Seventh Battle of Calvarium, but that is nonsense. I think one of them, or maybe both of them, have figured out how to enter Caer Magia, which explains how Ephaltus and Jurius got their hands on Dustblades.”

  “Then if Lady Maena and Anashir can enter Caer Magia,” said Kylon, �
�why haven’t they claimed its secrets and departed?”

  “I don’t know,” said Caina. “They are clearly enemies, so perhaps both are waiting for the other to make a move. Perhaps the method to enter Caer Magia takes time and effort to prepare, and they are working on it even as we speak. Or they need something specific to enter the city, an amulet or a warding spell or whatever, and Ephaltus and Jurius stole it.”

  “Or,” said Kylon, “they are looking for something in particular, and have not found it.”

  “Such as,” said Corvalis, “whatever spell or weapon killed everyone in Caer Magia.”

  “That is my fear,” said Caina. She had almost seen such sorcerous catastrophes numerous times. Maglarion’s great bloodcrystal had nearly killed everyone in Malarae. Kalastus’s pyromancy would have burned the city of Rasadda to ashes. Ranarius had almost awakened the great earth elemental sleeping beneath the Stone of Cyrioch. “That, Kylon, is why I have come to Caer Magia. To ensure no one enters the city, and that its secrets remain forgotten.”

  Kylon gave a bitter laugh. “Then I fear we may be at cross purposes, Caina of the Ghosts. For I am going to enter Caer Magia, and I will return to New Kyre with a blue bloodcrystal.”

  “I see,” said Caina.

  She saw Corvalis tense, saw Muravin brace himself. A useless effort. If Kylon wanted to kill them, he could do so without much difficulty.

  “There is no reason,” said Caina, “for us to oppose each other. We both want the same thing, in essence – to repair the damage done by the weapons of Caer Magia, and to make sure no one else gains access to them.”

  “That is true enough,” said Kylon.

  Caina took a deep breath. “I am willing to help you find a way into Caer Magia.”

  Both Corvalis and Muravin frowned.

  “And in exchange?” said Kylon.

  “Two things,” said Caina. “First, you will help us find whoever is trying to enter Caer Magia, and you will help us stop them.”

  “With pleasure.” Kylon’s eyes were hard. “Our enemies are responsible for Thalastre’s wound.”

  “Second,” said Caina, “we will destroy the method used to enter Caer Magia, along with all knowledge of its making. Or if it is a specific spell or ritual, you will never speak of it to anyone.”

  “I agree,” said Kylon.

  “Mistress,” said Muravin, “are you sure this is wise? New Kyre is in danger of losing the war, you have said so yourself. Perhaps Lord Kylon will take back weapons of power for his countrymen.”

  “No,” said Kylon. “I will not.”

  Corvalis grunted. “A drowning man reaches for anything at hand.”

  “Sometimes it is better to drown,” said Kylon. “I have seen the destruction necromantic sorcery can wreak. You were there with me, Ghost, in the tomb of Scorikhon.” He looked at Corvalis. “And you were there at Catekharon, in the Tower of Study. You saw what Mihaela’s suits of glypharmor could do…and I am sure you can imagine what they could have done had she not been defeated.” Kylon shook his head. “Some things are better left buried. I wish only for a blue bloodcrystal to unbind the Dustblade and heal Thalastre, and that is all. Nothing else will I take from Caer Magia. I will swear it on the names of whatever gods you wish.”

  “No,” said Caina. “No, I believe you.”

  “You trust him?” said Corvalis.

  “About this, yes,” said Caina. “Once you have seen the damage that sorcery can wreak…it is impossible to forget.”

  “And,” said Kylon, voice quiet, “that damage can never be repaired.”

  He was thinking about Andromache, she knew.

  “No,” said Caina. “It cannot.”

  “Then,” said Kylon, “let us keep more people from falling victim to the sorcery of Caer Magia. I am a warrior, not a spy. Intrigue is not my strength. How shall we proceed?”

  Caina walked towards the window. The shutters stood half-open, and she saw the darkened street below. “We will say that you have volunteered to assist Rania Scorneus in her inquires, in order to curry favor with the Magisterium and the Emperor. That will give you a plausible excuse for remaining in Calvarium.” She looked out the window. “We’ll need to find a way to infiltrate either Lady Maena’s camp or Anashir’s. Some ruse, some disguise. Or we can try to capture and question of the cultists of Anubankh. They almost certainly have spies in the town, and…”

  She stopped.

  Men in cloaks were moving along the street below the Inn of Seven Skulls, and she caught a brief glint of steel. Why were armed men abroad at night? Smugglers or thieves, perhaps, or the cultists of Anubankh on their way to eliminate a foe, or Lady Maena’s men attacking Anashir’s…

  Or somebody had decided that Rania Scorneus was a threat, and had come to eliminate her.

  “Damn it,” muttered Caina, and she heard the scream from the common room.

  Corvalis, Muravin, and Kylon all drew their swords, and Caina hurried past them to the door. She slipped into the corridor, walked to the stairs, and peered into the Inn’s common room. Alexandra sat at a bench, her wide eyes full of terror. Four men in dark cloaks stood over her, crossbows in hand.

  “Be silent, girl,” said the lead man, his face shadowed beneath the cowl of his cloak. “My name is Harkus, and we mean you no harm. Where is Rania Scorneus? We have business with her.”

  “Mistress!” shouted Alexandra. “Mistress, they are coming for you! Run! Run!”

  “So much for taking her by surprise,” said one of the other men.

  “Silence,” said Harkus. “Come with me. We’ll guard the front. You two, have your crossbows ready. Shoot the Scorneus woman the minute the others have her pinned down and her wards negated.” Two other cloaked men entered the Inn’s common room. Instead of swords or crossbows, they carried rods of an odd silvery metal, their sides inscribed with a pattern of glyphs and sigils.

  Caina had seen rods like those before, carried in the hands of the Masked Ones of Catekharon.

  But what were they doing here?

  She lingered a second too long, and one of the cloaked men saw her.

  “The Moroaica!” he shouted. “There!”

  “Kill her!” said Harkus.

  They thought she was the Moroaica?

  “Wait!” said Caina. “I’m not…”

  The crossbows came up, and Caina threw herself backward.

  An instant later two crossbow bolts slammed into the wooden wall. Caina saw smoke rising from the bolts. They had been smeared with some particularly lethal poison.

  Whoever these men were, they had come prepared.

  Caina sprinted back into the sitting room and barred the door behind her. “What’s going on?” said Corvalis.

  “I think I’ve worn out my welcome,” said Caina.

  Chapter 11 - The Venatorii

  Kylon tightened his grip on his sword, power filling him.

  The sorcery of air made him faster, giving him the speed of a gale wind. The sorcery of water made him stronger, augmenting his blows with the power of a thundering sea. He did not have the raw power of Thalastre and the other stormsingers, and so his training focused on using his sorcery to augment his combat skills.

  And he was very good at it.

  “Can we fight our way out?” said Corvalis. He looked calm, almost relaxed, but Kylon had spent enough time around trained killers to see the readiness in his pose, and his sorcery detected the other man’s tension. Muravin had sheathed his sword and picked up a trident, of all things, the barbed ends razor-sharp. Kylon had never seen such a weapon used outside a gladiatorial game, but he supposed it would be deadly enough in skilled hands.

  And Caina was the sort of woman to surround herself with skilled men.

  “No,” said Caina, crossing to the windows and throwing open the shutters. Her black robe billowed in the breeze. “There are too many of them, and they’ve tipped their weapons with some sort of poison. Once scratch, I suspect, and you’re dead. We need to get away, find s
ome place where they won’t try anything. One of the taverns, I suspect, or perhaps the militia barracks.”

  “Should we rouse your other Guards?” said Muravin.

  “No,” said Caina. “I don’t want to put their lives at risk. These men do not look like amateurs.”

  “How many?” said Corvalis.

  “At least six,” said Caina, reaching under the table. She drew out a gleaming steel grapnel and a coil of rope. A quick stab drove the grapnel into the windowsill, and she threw the rope to the street below.

  Kylon reached into himself and summoned the sorcery of water, extending his senses. He felt the ice filling Caina’s mind, wrapping around the inferno of her heart, felt the cool detachment of the professional killer in Corvalis, felt battle rage rising in Muravin.

  He also sensed the terror of the serving girl in the common room…and the dozen or so frightened, determined men moving through the Inn, making their way up the stairs.

  “Actually,” said Kylon, “there are a dozen of them. Maybe more. And they’re utterly terrified of you.”

  “They should be,” said Caina. “They think I’m the Moroaica.”

  Kylon frowned. “The Moroaica? Why?”

  “We can figure it out later,” said Caina. “I’ll go first…”

  “No,” said Kylon. “I can go down the rope faster. Then you follow, and then your Guards.”

  “Why can you go faster?” said Muravin.

  “Because,” said Kylon, “I don’t need the rope.”

  The hallway creaked, and Kylon sensed the attackers moving closer.

  “Enough talk,” said Caina. “Go.”

  Kylon nodded, grabbed the windowsill, and jumped into the night.

  He landed in the street four stories below, the sorcery of water filling his legs with strength. His knees buckled beneath him, absorbing the impact, and Kylon rolled and came back to his feet. He looked up, and saw Caina already scrambling down the rope, the wind blowing her black robe around her. Beneath it she wore dark leggings, throwing knives strapped to her legs.

  He was not in the least surprised that she had come prepared.